


Acumen

by viceindustrious



Category: Stella Does Tricks
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie knows how to look out for himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acumen

After Stella gives up on him, gives up on _them_ , things fall apart fast.

It wasn't like they had them patched up all that good to start with. Stella and her plants, like they were living in the fucking Chelsea Flower Show or something. Wrapping paper peeling off the walls, life in a sad, unwanted birthday present. Cheap and cheerful and bloody tragic. That was Stella though.

Rotting in this bed, electric meter's run down to nothing, it's easier to pull the covers over his head and sleep the cold away than get up. The sheets are starting to stink but just thinking about stuffing the lot into a bin bag and lugging it all the way down to the laundrette makes him exhausted. He's got enough on his plate as it is.

'Course, he never really got up _onto_ the wagon, so he can't say he's fallen off. Couldn't get clean when Stella was sorting out all her shit, he had to keep the shine on that, didn't he? Couldn't deal with finding her stiff sober and things have just gone from bad to worse since then. Pointless trying to get clean now. Do more harm than good. All he needs is a bit of time to get his head together. Just enough to give him a kick start, get back on the right track and then he'll be cruising.

The coffee table's in bits and pieces. Stereo smashed. Baked bean stain drying sticky on the wall and shattered china along the skirting board. Fucking _cunt_ , she left him and she said she was going to look out for him.

Same story, same story. He's thinking in stereo again, shaking, too wired to lay still. Bitch. _Bitch_ Story of his fucking life. Everyone in the world's just out for themselves. Why would she care about all the shit he'd have to deal with thanks to her? Too selfish to throw herself off a bridge. Police poking their noses around, arsey coppers getting all handsy when they pat him down. Jerking him around like he's a dog, pinning him by the scruff of his neck to the wall. Well fuck them too.

Past two and he's still in bed. No point going out before it gets dark anyway, before business hours. Anyway, the light hurts his eyes and he can't find his shades, too tired to go digging through the piles of rubbish, dirty clothes strewn over the floor. Business hours, right. What is it they say? Business is bad all over? Yeah, maybe.

You've got to fall back on the simple stuff then. Doesn't matter how tight things get, even a skint bastard'll usually cough up twenty quid for you to suck them off as long as you know the right place to look.

Didn't feel right when Stella dragged him out of London. Should've figured right then how high she had her head in the clouds. The world's not their oyster. There's no getting away from anything. You're stuck with what you are, what you know and trying to make a clean break of that'll only fuck you up in the end.

Eddie rolls over onto this stomach, resting his hand on the tight, flat drum of his belly. Touches the side of his ribs, the inside of his wrists, the small of his back. Rough little circles of scar tissue jump up to greet his fingertips, half healed scabs that have started to itch as his skin knits itself back together.

He's got options. Could spend tonight freezing in Peckham, mucking up the one good pair of jeans he's got left, in some back alley. Get a slap or two from the wankers who don't want to wear a rubber and don't like it when you ask.

Or he could cross the river. Price of a tube ticket is worth the investment for what he'll make back from some City boy. All it takes is one then. A nice, old banker type, all smart in a Savile Row suit. Nice meaning; not stingy with the cash. Nice meaning; you can _count_ on a slap but that's included in the price tag, fairs fair and you've got safe sex guaranteed. No way they're going to risk catching anything off him. It's all well and good getting off with some bit of rough trade but they don't know where he's been, do they?

Eddie scratches at one of the burn marks on his stomach and stares blearily at the beside table from under his heap of blankets. His phone sits there next to a glass that's tacky with a drying smear of vodka and cola. There's a number on there he could call.

Nice chunk of change to be made by it. No risk. Well, no risk he doesn't know going in and so you don't call that _risk_ do you? This customer says it's his selling point, the way he marks up. Gave him his number after seeing how quick the bruises rise on his skin.

Apart from what he likes in bed, he's real polite, this gentleman. Pays well, doesn't try and humiliate him the way some of those other rich sods seem to get off on. He's got more class, better suits, _very_ fucking sharp. Not bad looking either, not that it really makes a difference. He likes his cigars. Likes them even better when they're being stubbed out on Eddie.

Of course, Eddie makes sure he gets extra for that. He knows how to look out for himself.


End file.
